Royal Blood
by SteveGarbage
Summary: She wanted to give the nation the heir it deserved, the security that it needed. She wanted to see the joy on her husband's face as he held a baby boy in his arms and dreamed of all the possibilities he would have in his lifetime. She had never thought she wanted those things before, but now, she was sure she wanted to give those things to Alistair.


The blood was so red it nearly looked black, hot, sticky and stinking.

The pain felt like a dagger plunged into her abdomen over and over, each stab bringing more blood, more agony as the queen dragged herself across the marble floor of the washroom.

Anora's blood-slickened fingers slipped on the stone as she crawled toward the wash basin, her eyes blurry with fiery tears. It had all happened so fast. One moment she was fine, the next, blinding torment.

And the blood, there was so much blood.

"Erlinaaa!" Anora screamed in equal parts terror and desperation. She didn't know if her handmaiden was close, but the elf was the only one she could trust. "Erlina, please! Help me!"

Another slice of pain bisected the queen, causing her arms and leg to curl, her body curled like a helpless babe as agony wracked her.

She could hear the latch of the door, the soft Orlesian accent in the bedroom. "My lady?"

"Erlina!" the queen croaked, weaker than before.

The elf appeared in the doorway, her hand over her mouth in shock as she spied the long, red streak of blood smeared across the stone floor. Erlina was paralyzed, unable to speak.

"Please, Erlina," Anora begged, her eyes squeezed so tight, trying to hold the tears in. A queen should not cry, not in front of her servants. "Get help," she said.

Anora wrapped her hands around her knees, squeezing them into her stomach as pain radiated through her.

"And please, Erlina. Find my husband."

* * *

Her father sat down on the cushioned chair across from her, his large, strong hands pented over his mouth.

"We need to talk, Anora, about something very important," he said.

Her father had been having bouts of very bad chest pain recently. She wasn't supposed to know that. Teryn Loghain Mac Tir would never wanted anyone to believe that he was human. But she had sat outside his bedroom door, eavesdropping as the physician examined and spoke to her father. The doctor didn't have any good answers. It could just be an extended bout of indigestion or some gas trapped in a lung. But it might also be signs of a more serious problem with his heart.

He had advised the Teryn to try to relax, undergo some light exercise and temporarily change his eating habits under some strict supervision to better determine whether it was serious or not. Her father had done none of those things and dismissed the physician.

"If this is about how babies are made, I already know," Anora teased. She was just barely twelve years old. It was a lesson she had just learned recently. The whole concept sounded disgusting to her. Yet, she couldn't help but begin to take notice of the older boys around Gwaren.

Her father chuckled, his cheeks turning slightly pink. Was he embarrassed? "No, no it's not that," Loghain said. "But it's equally as serious."

Anora shifted in her seat, sitting up straight, crossing her legs, folding her hands in her lap as all her teachers had taught her. A lady must be proper, confident and strong. As she assumed her ladylike position, her father smiled.

"Anora, I want to talk to you about your future. You're my only child. Everything I've accomplished, everything I've built here, it will all be yours some day when I am gone," Loghain said.

"Daddy," Anora said with a loving smile. "You're not going anywhere. Not for a long time."

"I hope not," he replied. "But anything can happen, Anora. I've told you before that I came from nothing. It was either luck, or maybe a curse, that first crossed my path with King Maric. We didn't always see eye to eye and, Maker, sometimes I think he did things just to anger me. But ever since meeting him, he made me realize that there is nothing I wouldn't do for Ferelden. I have, and always will, give everything to protect our homeland."

Anora nodded.

"But as I said, I won't be here forever," Loghain said, his steely eyes distant and almost sad, she thought. "Maric is a good man and I can only hope his son will be some day too. But if Cailin is like his father, he'll need guidance. He'll need someone to tell him when he's being a fool and someone who will always be at his side, no matter the circumstance."

Loghain swallowed and looked at his daughter, the hard features of his face softening just a little. "That's why you're going to be queen."

Queen? Could it really be true. Anxiety, fear and excitement all pulsed through her body. "Queen? Me? Are you serious?"

Loghain nodded. "I've finalized the details with the king. You'll marry Prince Cailan and when he ascends to his father's throne some day, you'll rule at his side."

All of her lessons were out of her head as she lunged forward, grabbing her father around the neck, squeezing him as she bounced with excitement in his lap. "Oh Daddy, I can't believe it!"

Her father's arms wrapped around her, lovingly, with so much hope and so much fear. Loghain lifted his daughter off of him, holding the young girl before him by her upper arms as he locked his eyes into hers. "It is a large responsibility I'm giving you Anora. But promise me that, no matter what happens, you'll always, _always_ do what is best for Ferelden."

Anora was just a girl. All she knew about being queen she had heard in singer's songs and children's tales, beautiful queens who stood beside valiant, brave kings. She didn't, couldn't understand the breadth of what her father asked of her at just twelves years old.

But her father's face was so serious, his eyes so ringed with doubt that Anora wondered even then what, outside of Orlesians, could ever threaten Ferelden? Still, she knew this was a promise her father needed.

"I promise," Anora said. "I'll always do what is best for Ferelden."

* * *

The queen's long fingernails scratched into the hardwood beam, bracing herself so that her cheek didn't slam against the wall as he enthusiastically took her from her behind.

The king's hands were firmly latched to Anora's hips, her legs burning at the slight bend in her knees, but she dared not move or unclench her muscles as he thrusted. She closed her eyes and hung on, her bottom lip pierced between her teeth, trying to remember to breathe while not screaming out.

It was the middle of the day and the King was supposed to be meeting the ambassador from Orlais, but Anora had dragged him out of the hall and into their bedchamber, tugging the sleeve of his long shirt, coaxing him away from his duty just for one hour. It had been two weeks since her last blood and when she woke this morning, she could not swallow the anxious fire that tingled through her for her husband. She had wanted, needed him today. Her king's performance was not disappointing.

Alistair's hands squeezed tighter, the movement of his hips seized and she could feel bursts exploding in her as the king quietly grunted. There was a quiet moment, filled with only the sounds of labored breathing as Anora finally took the opportunity to relax, resting her cheek against the cool wooden beam. The king withdrew, a gentle gasp escaping her lips as his hands crept up the curves of her body, fingers sliding across sweat-soaked skin to her chest.

Alistair planted a soft kiss upon her right shoulder, resting his head across her back. "The Orlesian ambassador is not going to be pleased," he said with a small chuckle. "You're going to inadvertently start a war with the Empire." His hands rolled across her breasts and squeezed as he planted another soft kiss on her back.

"I think the Orlesians might be sympathetic to the idea of getting distracted from work by carnal delight," Anora said, smiling.

"So you're advising that I should tell him why I'm late?" Alistair said, his voice a mix of his playful humor and a sudden sleepiness that descended across him.

"Don't you dare."

Anora stood straight up and the king spun her quickly, his hands finding their place back on her hips as his lips locked upon hers. Anora crossed her legs, squeezing together to make sure not to lose any of the king's seed, as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

She had once been disgusted by the idea of marrying King Maric's bastard equally as much as he had disliked the idea. Anora had expected a long, chilly marriage, especially after Warden Commander chose to spare her father's life despite Alistair's protest. When the Archdemon died atop Fort Drakon those many years ago, it was the red-haired elf that descended the tower, not her father.

Warden Commander Tabris never spoke of what truly happened in the final battle of the Fifth Blight. All she would ever say is that Teryn Loghain perished heroically striking the killing blow upon the Archdemon. He died the way Anora had always seen him, a hero.

It was duty that bound her to Alistair Theirin. But, to both of their surprises, in time, a real love had bloomed between them. The foolish Warden had become an astute ruler with a genuine care for the people of Ferelden. His popular and social demeanor had softened the nation and her too, she knew. And when she had finally lowered her defenses, the king had proved to be quite gentlemanly, if not frequently charmingly awkward.

She had never felt this way about Cailan. The golden king had never been anything more than a foolish babe in a set of shiny armor to her. She had shunned the marital bed as often as she could.

Anora sat the throne. Anora ruled Ferelden. Cailan spent his days with his head in the clouds, reading stories and foolishly believing real life could be like that. Ferelden was not a story book. Taxes needed to be collected, trade needed to be regulated, harvests needed to be monitored to make sure people did not starve.

She did not need Cailan. Power was the arousal she sought, the rush and ecstasy of outmaneuvering sly diplomats, finding and correcting problems before they could cripple the nation, sitting judgment in the audience chamber to those brought before her.

The king could ride his horses and follow around his Grey Wardens. He could write love poems to the Empress of Orlais. He could give roses to beautiful women at parties. He could live the storybook while she controlled reality.

And then, Cailan had died.

It was then, and only then, that she realized the power she built around her was little more than a house of cards. Anora had given _everything_ to Ferelden. But in the end, she was only the queen, a pretty face and a powerful surname who only existed as counterpart to the Theirin king. She soon realized that the Bannorn and the people didn't care that she had guided their land on her own. And when Ferelden fell, Anora fell with it.

She would not make the same mistake twice.

Anora wanted to see Ferelden safe and prosperous. She wanted to give the nation the heir it deserved, the security that it needed. She wanted to see the joy on her husband's face as he held a baby boy in his arms and dreamed of all the possibilities he would have in his lifetime. She had never thought she wanted those things before, but now, she was sure she wanted to give those things to Alistair.

Anora ran her finger against the king's breastbone, tracing out a pattern on his chest. "Tell me again about the names you picked for our children," she said with a smile.

Alistair placed his forehead down on hers, speaking softly between heavy breathing as he tried to calm down. "If it's a boy, we'll call him Duncan. He'll be a little rascal as he's growing up, running around the castle, getting into all kinds of trouble. But he'll be a bright boy and he'll eventually settle down into his studies. He'll learn everything he needs to know about how to be a great ruler and he'll be a fearsome warrior, just like his namesake."

"And for a girl?" Anora said. She had resigned the fact that Alistair was unshakable on the boy's name. She had a few other more popular, strong Fereldan names, but there would be no convincing him. The girl's name, she still thought was a battleground she could win. "Have you thought any more about naming her after my mother, Celia."

Alistair began muttering and stumbling, as he often did when he had to try to broach a sensitive subject. He was a very poor negotiator, because he never knew how to say something delicate just so. "Well, um, yes, but I was thinking, um, that I still like Kallian."

"Yes, I know, honey. But just because she killed an Archdemon doesn't mean you need to name your little girl after her," Anora said. She could never forget that the Hero of Ferelden had lived and her father had not. "Besides, there are dozens of girls named that in Denerim alone."

"I know, but she means a lot to me," Alistair said, then scowled as he realized how that sounded. "Errr, I mean, platonically, of course. You know, good times fighting the Blight and all that. Just friends, that's all. She's in love with Leliana. I told you that, right?"

"Yes, frequently," Anora said, unimpressed. "And you always blush when mentioning it."

Alistair was blushing now. Deep down, he was still just a man. There were some things about him she still hoped she could fix and other matters were lost causes.

"And tell me about our daughter," Anora said.

"Well, she'll inherit all her mother's good looks and brains and be nothing like her father," Alistair said. "Although she'll grow up here in Denerim in the palace, she'll have a kind heart that loves Ferelden above everything else. She'll want to travel all over our nation helping people. She'll be beloved by everyone she meets."

Anora giggled as she lifted Alistair's chin with one finger and gave him another brief kiss. "They sound like wonderful children," she said.

"Well I don't know the first thing about raising a family, so I don't how I won't manage to mess them up for life," Alistair said with a grin. "But we'll find a way."

Anora planted another kiss on his cheek.

"You better get dressed," she said. "The Orlesians are waiting for you. I wouldn't want to be responsible for starting another war."

Alistair stepped back and began picking up his discarded clothes from around the floor, slipping back into them. Anora slouched back against the wall, watching him dress, checking himself once over in the mirror, blowing her a kiss as he slipped out of the bedroom back into the hall.

The Queen closed her eyes, placing a hand over her womb.

She wished all of her husband's dreams would come true.

* * *

"I wasn't quite sure what to get you."

Alistair placed three boxes, wrapped in white paper, each tied with red ribbon in large, decorative bows. Parts of Denerim were still smoking ruins blackened with Blight, but somehow in the effort of the reconstruction, the king had apparently found time to shop. Or, more likely, he had found someone at court who was willing to shop for him.

In truth, Anora had completely forgotten today was the day of their wedding one year ago. It had been small and simple. Denerim had been mostly destroyed and neither he nor she was enthused for the event. Neither had any family left to attend. Not even Kallian had come, because the king had not asked her too. The two Wardens had not spoken since the Landsmeet.

They exchanged simple vows, simple rings and like that, they were wed. Perhaps someday when things normalized, they would go through the motions of a more lavish ceremony or celebration, but the fallout of the Blight had resigned them to simpler things.

Alistair scratched the back of his head nervously as Anora looked at each of the gifts. They had been wed for one year, but still, they were strangers. The king had been traveling extensively, visiting cities and castles ravaged by the Blight. Anora had stayed in Denerim, treating with envoys and ambassadors and overseeing the rebuilding of Ferelden's capital. Nights when they were both in the same place at the same time were rare and even then, they did not go out of their way to seek each other's company.

Anora pulled the ribbon on the largest box, lifting the lid to reveal two dozen white roses, each carefully cut and placed in the box. After the Blight, many plants refused to grow and those who had unspoiled land were not spending it planting flowering bushes. "They're beautiful," Anora said, trying to sound more grateful than she actually was. She lifted one of the flowers and placed its soft petals to her nose, slowly inhaling its fragrant smell. It had been more than a year since she smelled flowers in Denerim.

"I wasn't sure what type of flowers you might like," he said. "I asked a dozen ladies around the palace and I think I got a dozen different answers."

 _Orchids_ , Anora thought, but instead said, "These are lovely, thank you."

She pulled the red, lacy ribbon on the second-largest box. As she lifted the lid, she found it was filled with small, dainty chocolates in varying shapes and sizes, each hand-decorated with different stripes and swirls. Where would he have gotten these?

"I wish I knew what they each tasted like," Alistair said. "I thought they'd put a legend in the box or something, but no. I think some have nuts or fruit or maybe caramels. I don't know, I just…"

Anora picked up a dark chocolate criss-crossed with white across the top and lifted it to her lips, taking a small nibble. She shrugged and lifted her other hand to her lips as she bit into a cherry, the red syrup dripping down her chin. Her husband cracked a small smile as the queen plopped the other half into her mouth and licked the sticky syrup off the side of her hand.

"Did you get these in Gwaren?" she asked. She could swear it tasted just like a small chocolatier whose small, homey shop sat near the waterfront in her father's terynir.

"Well, I was in the neighborhood," he said, blushing slightly. The king was terribly awkward.

"Thank you," she said again. Even the queen had to admit, it was a thoughtful gift.

Alistair motioned to the last, smallest box. "Go ahead," he said. "I don't know if you'll like this and if not, I'll completely understand. You know, I'm terrible at these types of things. I'm much better with, you know, darkspawn."

Anora untied the ribbon and opened the last box, looking at a small pendant on a thin, silver chain. The pendant looked like it was clear glass, which what looked like a single drop of a small, black liquid trapped inside. She lifted the pendant out of the box, drooping it over her hand as she looked closer at it, trying to figure out what it was. For jewelry, it was rather plain and rather unattractive.

She obviously looked confused as Alistair began to explain. "When a Grey Warden passes their initiation, we take a drop of darkspawn blood and put it in a pendant, to remind them of the sacrifice they have made in joining the Order."

Alistair reached into the front of his shirt, pulling up a chain and producing an identical pendant that he wore. Anora had never noticed that he wore a chain before until just now.

"That one, however," Alistair swallowed and paused before saying a pained look on his face that he forced his way through, "That one belonged to your father."

Anora looked again at the small dangling pendant, the simple, morbid charm. Had her father worn this after he was forced to join the Wardens? Had he worn this in the final moments of his life, as he was killed fighting atop the tower of Fort Drakon?

But Anora instead looked at her husband, who was trying his best to smile, but his eyes were staring at it the pendant. Alistair hated her father. He had loudly and angrily objected to having him join the Wardens. He had refused to march with Kallian. He hadn't been there for the final fight, hadn't invited his closest friend to their wedding and hadn't even spoken to her until just recently. For him to give her this as a gift, meant…

"I just thought you should have it," Alistair said softly. "I know he meant the world to you."

Anora wrapped her fingers around the pendant, clutching it in her palm as she leaned forward, planting a soft kiss upon her husband's cheek.

"Thank you, Alistair," Anora said. "It's very thoughtful."

Although Alistair was rarely serious, there was no smile or sarcasm to his voice now.

"You're my wife, my queen," he said. "And I will do anything to make you happy."

For the first time, Anora wondered if maybe there was a place for love in her marriage.

* * *

The wood screeched against the floor.

"Lift it, you idiots! You better not have scratched that floor," the chamberlain shouted at the three elven workers. "My apologies, your majesty."

"No harm done," Anora said to the nervous chamberlain. He was new, an elf himself, but he had proven to be the finest administrator of the household yet. She had been skeptical when her husband had appointed him after the previous man had been dismissed. The captain of the guard found the last chamberlain high on dust, lying in Anora's washtub.

The elves lifted the large four-poster bed, shuffling their feet as they rotated it and moved it to the north wall of the bedroom. They cautiously placed the bed on the ground, sliding it gently back until the headboard stopped about two inches from the wall.

Anora considered it for a moment, her hand on her chin.

"If it's not perfect, your majesty, just tell me, and they can move it again," the chamberlain offered.

"Maybe just a little to the right," Anora said. "Then can we move the dressers to the other wall where the bed was and I want that small table on my side of the bed, the right side, if you can."

"Of course, your majesty," the chamberlain said and then began barking orders to his workers.

Five more months had passed and still they had not conceived.

She had tried a few rancid tasting tonics suggested she had procured from the Tranquil at the Wonders of Thedas emporium in the market district. None had not worked. She had, discreetly, obtained and read some rather lurid texts regarding fertility. She had even written a very cordial letter to the Warden Commander in Orlais, seeking any information about the potency, or impotency, of Wardens. She had received a polite but brief letter back without much information. Anora prayed that the Warden Commander had burned her missive shortly after reading it.

Anora had learned that Grey Wardens rarely conceived, something to do with the transformation they underwent. Alistair didn't say much more than that. He said it was Warden secrets, but Anora knew that he simply didn't know any more than that.

Conception was difficult, but not impossible. And if was not impossible, Anora was certain she could make it happen. They were king and queen. There was no job more important for a ruler than to produce an heir and ensure a safe, stable future for the kingdom.

Alistair hadn't complained about all the trying, either.

"A little late to be rearranging the furniture, isn't it?" her husband's voice said from behind her.

"Your majesty," the chamberlain said, bowing his head deeply as the king entered the room. The elven servants were moving a dresser and he turned his head. "The King is here, you dolts. Put that dresser down and show the proper respect!"

They dropped the large, wooden dresser with a thud and awkwardly bowed. The chamberlain fumed at how they had carelessly let the dresser slip to the floor.

"That's really not necessary," Alistair said, waving them off. "As you were."

The king scooped Anora into his arms, greeting her with a kiss. "So, the furniture?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Anora turned her face to the side, blushing slightly. "I was told that couples who are trying should turn their bed so it's facing north," she said. When she said it out loud, it sounded ridiculous. She didn't realize that until now.

Alistair chuckled. "Is that what we're reduced to now, superstition?" His eyes looked down at the necklace around her neck, plucking up the chain with his fingers and pulling up the carved, wooden ring pendant at the end of it. He studied it for a moment. "This new? Seems a bit… rustic, for your tastes."

Anora snatched it from his hand and let the chain droop back around her chest, the long chain dangling down into her dress where it hung between her breasts. "It's… it's a Rivaini fertility talisman." She felt even more embarrassed now.

"Are there any other surprises in here tonight?" Alistair asked, playfully peering over the top of her head, scanning the bedroom for anything else out of place. "Avvar goat milk? Orlesian feather tickler? Antivan love serum? You know those Antivan potions don't work, I once knew an elf who-"

Anora clamped her hand over his mouth. The chamberlain was still standing next to them, his arms crossed, supervising the work. He was clearly close enough to hear, but he looked ahead as if nothing was going on behind him. Still, Anora didn't like her husband carrying on like that. Everyone talked in Denerim and the last thing they needed were rumors that they were having trouble conceiving.

Anora whispered. "No, none of that," she said. But with a devious look in her eye, she quietly added, "But there is another… technique… that I thought we might try tonight."

Alistair's eyes went wide and lit up and the notion. As Anora pulled her hand away, Alistair stepped up next to the chamberlain. "It's been a long day and we would like to get to bed as soon as possible," the king said, giving the chamberlain a nudge with his elbow. Anora wanted to die of embarrassment. "So if we could have your boys wrap this up quickly, that would be lovely."

"Of course, your majesty," the chamberlain said, his face as plain and respectful as possible.

The chamberlain shouted at his workers to finish moving the furniture one the double as Alistair dusted his hands against each other, turning back to his wife.

"They're taking care of it," he said with a grin filled with his fool's charm on his face, his thumb pointing back around his side to the workers.

"Now about that, technique, you mentioned…"

* * *

Cailan pranced across the bedroom floor, the point of the rapier spinning and thrusting at imagined enemies.

The King backed a step, parrying, spun and thrust forward emphatically with his right arm. His left arm was pinned in his lower back as he sparred with nothing in his undergarments. It had become a nightly ritual, one that Anora barely bothered to observe any more. She sat in the bed, flipping through pages of correspondence received from the bannorn. Frequent rain was delaying the wheat harvest in Lothering. A group of bandits had also taken up residence along the east-west road between South Reach and Denerim.

The Queen scrawled a quick note to remind herself to make her way to the barracks tomorrow and get them to send a special detail to patrol the highway.

Cailan wiped his forehead as he slipped the rapier back into its sheath. "Glorious," he said. Anora's eyes glanced up, reminding herself that his eyes were on the sword and not her in the sheer nightgown. "I believe my form is improving. I can feel it in my back. Much stronger, much more stable."

Anora scratched another note down on her page. Some of the nobles were complaining of sewage stink from the alienage. There was little that could be done, outside of sending them a polite but noncommittal reply.

Cailan plopped onto the bed, running his finger along her arm. "Did you see me Anora? What do you think?"

Anora shrugged her arm to brush him aside. "Very nice," she said unenthused.

Cailan's fingers began to creep up, pulling the thin strap of her nightgown slowly down over her shoulder. Anora shrugged again, reaching across to pull the strap back into place. "Cailan, I'm busy," she said, waving the feather pen dismissively at him. "I have several things to get done tomorrow morning before I have to host Teyrna Cousland for tea. And I have a splitting headache." The last part was a clear lie. But she was too exhausted to try better to mask it as truth.

"Well, I thought we could-"

"No, Cailan," Anora said as she traced her finger across the page and strained her eyes to read the sloppy script of the Revered Mother of Denerim. The woman had never had good penmanship and now her advancing age made her writing even choppier. "Not tonight."

The king rolled over, slipping under the covers and jerking them hard over his shoulder in a pouting disapproval. Anora steadied the inkwell on her lap and shot him a annoyed look at the back of his golden mane.

The king might be master of sparring invisible foes on the floor, but Anora was the master of the bed.

* * *

The cool, damp rag dotted her forehead as Erlina ran her gentle fingers through her hair.

Anora could feel her stomach twisting again. She stifled a small belch, but she could feel the vomit pushing up her throat again as she ducked her head into the washbasin and spewed another wave of her breakfast into the bowl. The cinnamon rolls had tasted so sweet going down and so vile coming back up.

Anora spit, the acid burning her mouth as the stink of the bowl nearly made her retch again. The queen held a hand across her abdomen as her handmaiden held her hair and cooed softly to her. "That's it, my queen. Get it all out. We are alone. No one will know."

The sickness had started earlier this week and was growing worse every day. Anora had missed her monthly blood twice now. Instead, it had been replaced with daily bouts of vomiting, nausea and queasiness.

Anora grabbed the small towel and wiped her mouth. "How long is this supposed to last, Erlina?" she asked. Her elven handmaiden had been at her side every day, caring for her.

"It could go on as long as two months," Erlina said, dabbing the queen's forehead again. The wet rag felt refreshing each time Erlina touched it to her head. "But the sickness typically lessens after the first week or two."

Another burp forced its way up and Anora didn't try to stifle it this time. Her stomach rumbled and gurgled again, threatening another round. "I hope that's true," Anora said, closing her eyes and trying to will her stomach into submission. It responded with an angry bubbling noise.

"But this is good, my queen," Erlina said. "There is no doubt now that you are with child."

It was the same conclusion she had reached herself. Anora might have smiled, might have replied to Erlina and shared her fear and excitement.

But she could not speak as another wave of vomit crested her throat.

* * *

All of the young ladies of the court wanted to dance with the King, and he was happy to oblige them all.

They all smiled and giggled at the King's jokes. They all stood on their tiptoes to tighten their legs and push their budding chests closer to Cailan. He could not go anywhere in the hall without a train of courtiers behind him in their pastel dresses.

Anora sat in the corner, sipping wine, chatting with the Banns and Arls and discussing business while Cailan scampered around with a train of trollops in tow. It was his birthday, after all, and he worked so hard ruling that he needed a holiday to relax.

Anora snorted and nearly choked on her wine as the sarcastic thought crossed her mind.

Later that night, she sat in bed, reading, when Cailan stumbled his way into the bedroom. He held his hand over his face as he swerved into the wall and shut the door much too loudly for the hour. He began to peel himself out of his clothes, leaving them on the floor as he sauntered toward the bed.

"Good evening, my lovely Queen," Cailan said, slurring.

"You're drunk, Cailan," Anora said as she folded the book in her hand, her finger holding her place. "If you were trying to embarrass yourself tonight, you did a splendid job."

Cailan dropped his pants, crawling into the bed, sliding his naked body up her legs hidden beneath the blanket. "Oh it's just a little fun, Anora," he said. "And you never care for me much when I'm sober."

Anora held up her hand and caught his face in her palm before he could creep any higher up on her. "Don't dream of it, Cailan," she threatened.

"Oh come on, my sweet Queen. It's my birthday. I've been a good boy this year and I would really, really like a son as a present," he said, his vile tongue snaking out between his lips and licking her hand.

"I'd suggest finding a stork, then," she said.

Cailan rolled off of her, flopping onto his back on his side of the bed, his legs dangling off the edge of the bed. He reached down and grabbed himself crudely, stroking his growing manhood as he looked at the ceiling, brushing his hand through his hair and stifling a belch.

"You're a horrible woman. Just like your father," Cailan mused.

Anora slammed her book closed. "You better watch your mouth."

"I can say whatever I want," Cailan said. "I'm the King."

"And you can sleep on the couch in your study tonight, _King_ Cailan."

Cailan didn't stop stroking himself, now fully engorged. "Give me an heir."

"I'm already raising one child," Anora bit and returned to her reading.

* * *

Anora sat at the small table, the pair of undergarments spread out before her on the table as she waited.

The queen drummed her fingers across the table nervously, her eyes flitting down to look at the small, red stain that had leaked through the soft, white fabric.

The midwife picked up the undergarment and examined it. She was old and fat, the dark skin on her face wrinkled and eyes squinting to see. The woman's long, grey hair was not combed and was frazzled and out of place. But many said she was the best in Denerim. If there was any woman to trust with your birth, it was she. They said the Rivaini seers were actually mages. The midwife didn't look like any mage Anora had ever seen.

The midwife looked at the small stain, then smiled a big, friendly smile filled with yellowing teeth. "This is nothing to be concerned about my dear," she said softly, unafraid to address the queen so informally. "This will be your first child?"

Anora nodded, but raised her finger. "How is that normal?" the queen asked. "I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be bleeding."

The Rivaini folded the underwear into a small square and slid them back across the table to Anora. The queen wondered now if maybe she had overreacted. She had woken and when she had gone to the latrine, she had noticed the spot of blood. Her hands were immediately on her belly. Nothing felt out of place, but she couldn't stop worrying about the spot until she had finally resolved to send Erlina on an urgent errand to fetch the midwife.

"Don't worry your pretty head," the midwife said with a grandmotherly charm. How many children had she delivered in her day? Hundreds? "A lot of girls experience a little bleeding in their first three months. How far along are you, dear?"

Anora didn't particularly like the idea this woman thought of her as a "girl." She was more than 30 years old now. "Around eight weeks, I think."

The midwife reached across the table and put her large, bony hand on top of Anora's resting on the table. "That's good. You've been getting sick a lot too," she said. Anora smiled and nodding. She was feeling queasy even now. "That's good too. A sick mother means a healthy baby."

Anora allowed herself to slouch in her chain a little bit and let out a relieved sigh. She felt slightly silly now. She had panicked. Maybe all first-time mothers went through this? But she wouldn't just be giving birth to any boy or girl. She'd be giving birth to the future king or queen of Ferelden. Considering Alistair's condition, it might be the only child they would conceive. She carried the luck and fortune of the kingdom in her womb.

"I'm sorry for dragging you up here like this," Anora said. "I just-"

"Don't you worry, dear," the midwife said with another toothy smile. "You can send for me whenever you need me. And when that little baby is ready, I'll come a runnin' to make sure it comes into the world safe and sound, you believe that."

* * *

Erlina delicately worked the hairpins inside the small lock, moving them slowly side to side until the lock clicked and opened. Her handmaiden removed the small, golden lock from the latch and stepped aside.

Anora lifted the lid of the small wooden box she had pulled from deep within the king's closet. Folded letters spilled over the rim like an overflowing tankard as she lifted the lid. The box was stuffed to the point of being ready to burst. The Queen leafed through a few of the papers, noticing the definition on the broken purple wax seals in the shape of a lion's head.

Most letters from heads of state came to Anora, but these missives from the Empress had obviously been delivered directly to the King.

Anora did not open the letters and read them. She already had a good idea what was written on the pages. She stacked the folded notes in her hand, digging deeper into the box. A golden ring. A white silk kerchief with the faded imprint of two pink lips kissed upon the fabric. A crisp, black feather. A cork still stained with a little bit of dark, red wine. A pair of very lacy, very tiny, very Orlesian undergarments suited to a woman with a very petite figure.

"Tell me again about the rumors you've been hearing, Erlina. Plainly, please," Anora said as she picked through the box piece by piece.

"Bann Ceorlic has been positing that Your Grace is barren," Erlina said softly behind her. "There's been discussion that the King himself has been stating this as well."

Ceorlic was a lickspittle, an old, weak fool and one of her father's staunchest supporters. How pathetic was he to kiss Teyrn Loghain's boot in the morning and slander his daughter in the evening.

Anora lifted a small lock of hair so light blonde that it was almost white. It was tied with a small purple ribbon and smelled of Orlesian oil and perfume. "Is that so?"

Cailan was in Val Royeaux right now, weeks away from Denerim. Anora had known of his secret box of mementos for months. But it was raining today and she had grown bored, which had turned to curiosity. She found herself somewhat surprised that her husband's indiscretion had been carrying on much longer than she previously assumed.

"Yes, Your Grace," Erlina said. She sounded uncomfortable discussing the matter. "If I might, Your Grace, we could carefully let slip that the King is perhaps growing too… friendly… with the Empress. It could rally more support to you."

Anora lifted another pair of Orlesian undergarments out of the box. The light blue lace reminded her of the sky on brisk, cloudless winter day, the front so sheer that it would leave little to the imagination. The rear was nothing more than a single thin cord from the waistline. She wondered who would even dare to make such a garment for the Empress.

Erlina covered her head to the side, her cheeks pink with embarrassment as she watched the Queen absently staring at the underwear dangling off a single finger before her face. "No," Anora said. "No that won't be necessary. There's no need to engage with Cailan. The smart nobles already know the truth about who rules in Ferelden. The others are not worth courting.

"And it doesn't matter," Anora said, craning her neck to look a little closer at the underwear, trying to imagine what Celene might look like wearing it, lying on her oversized and ostentatious bed, with Cailan crawling over her like a slithering worm. "Cailan isn't getting what he wants anyway, no matter how much he flaps his idiot lips."

Anora lowered her hand, stuffing the underwear and the letters and all the other keepsakes back into the box, softly closing the lid and latching it.

"Burn everything that's in here, Erlina, but save the box. Lock it back up and place it back in the King's hiding place. Let him panic the next time he opens it to find it empty."

It would not be the only thing he would find even more empty in his marriage than when he left.

* * *

The brightly colored clothes and shoes sitting out on the tables of the market stall were so tiny, Anora could only giggle as she picked them up to examine them one by one.

The Denerim market was buzzing today as the queen discreetly scanned the wares. She had put her long, golden hair up and tied a scarf. The dress she wore today was rather plain and she wore little gold and jewels. Erlina was at her side, but otherwise, the queen was about as incognito as she could expect. The two bodyguards the captain had insisted on were also dressed down, not paying her any direct attention but making sure to keep within a few paces behind her, longswords ready at a moment's notice.

"These are adorable," Anora said, picking up a small pair of pink slippers with small bows at the toe. The shoes weren't even as big as her palm. Had her feet been this small once?

Although the seller was exhibiting clothes of all shapes and sizes for both men and women, Anora couldn't help but flutter around all the pink, purple and yellow clothes meant for little girls. Something inside her said it was a little girl. A boy would make a more secure heir to the throne, but she had decided she wanted a little girl. She could feel a little girl stirring inside her.

"Is there anything I can help you find, madam?" the seller said. His voice was slightly Orlesian, a thin, black mustache on his lip. "Do you have a little girl at home?" he asked, looking at her stomach. "Or is it one on the way perhaps?"

The seller didn't recognize her. That was good. She smiled as she placed the slippers back down on the table.

"Just wishful thinking at this point," the queen said. Even though he didn't seem to recognize her, she wanted to be safe. There had once been rumors swirling around this city about her ability or inability to conceive. She didn't want to spark a second coming.

Alistair slipped his riding gloves on as the servants finished loading the trunks into the wagon.

"We shouldn't be gone too long," the king said. "Just a quick trip south to check on Arl Bryland and South Reach, a short stop at Dragon's Peak on the way home. I'll be back just in time for your birthday."

"And what are you getting me this year?" the queen asked.

"That, my sweet, is a secret." He gave her a quick peck as he grabbed the reins and swung up onto his horse. "By the way. I heard a rumor today, were you shopping for baby clothes in the market this morning?"

Anora might have blanched if she had not been trained to not react so drastically in situations like these. "What? Oh that? I looked briefly while on my way elsewhere."

The king didn't look like he believed her. She wasn't very convincing, in any case. "Is there something I should know?"

She hadn't told him yet. She kept delaying and delaying, waiting, trying to figure out how to broach the conversation. She didn't expect Alistair would be anything but overjoyed. But every time she thought to bring it up, the words caught in her throat and she couldn't seem to force them out.

Even now as he leaned slightly from the saddle, leaning dangerously sideways, craning his head down toward her with his big, foolish puppy-dog eyes, she couldn't seem to muster the courage to just say it.

"Only that I love you more than anything," she said, lifting up on her toes to kiss him before he fell off his horse.

"And I, you," the king said. "I'll see you soon."

Alistair snapped the reins and his horse kicked off, the other soldiers following behind him and the wagon slowly creaking away as the draft horses pulled out of the courtyard.

Anora clutched her father's pendant in one hand as she turned back toward the palace.

* * *

Despite the fact she had thrown up cinnamon rolls three consecutive times in a row, the queen still cautiously nibbled on the sweet, warm rolls bathed in melting frosting.

The sun was leaking through the closed shutters of their bedroom and the queen sat at the small table, tearing pieces off the roll as she flipped through the pages of the book of love poems her husband had given her last year. They were written by a young Qunari, one who had abandoned the Qun. Giving up the rigid, heartless customs of his people had allowed him to find his own heart. His verse was quite beautiful, she thought. She wondered how her husband, of all people, had thought to get the book for her.

He had to have had a secret shopper, but she had yet to figure out who it was.

The queen flipped another page, her tongue running along the edge of the pastry to catch a drip of oozing frosting before it fell on her nightgown. Her eyes flitted across the page, the poet's verse so deft and light that she could feel his aching and desire pouring off the page. He was a tortured soul, a man who cried out for a love that expressed so beautifully but could not have.

The queen fanned herself with a hand. Between the morning sun, her cup of tea and the poetry, Anora was feeling in quite a heat. She turned in the chair, lifting her legs to cross them in the other direction when she felt a wetness between her thighs.

Anora blushed to herself, the thought of poetry giving her such a rise. Alistair was expected to return to Denerim soon and she longed for his embrace again. She had resolved that she would tell him everything he needed to know as soon as he came home. She had practiced the speech over and over during the past week, perfecting every word she wanted to tell him. It was not complicated. Young women broke this kind of news to their husbands every day. It should be no more difficult for her.

She closed the book of poems and slid it away from her on the table. She reached a hand down to adjust her undergarments, her fingers lightly touching the wet spot. A sudden twinge of pain shot up through her hip and she felt a sudden urge strong urge like she needed to relieve herself. Anora stood, pushing away from the table as she headed for the washroom. As her bare feet touched lightly across the floor, she looked down to notice a small, wet, red spot on the floor.

Was that blood? She lifted her hand, only now realizing that where she had touched, her fingertip was red. She looked back down to the floor as another spot dripped to the floor and she could see a small rivulet of blood rolling down her left leg.

She took another step toward the washroom, her foot barely touching the ground before a white-hot knife of pain shot through her abdomen, causing her to double over and cry out. Her hand touched her pelvis, where the lancing pain radiated throughout her groin. As she pressed down with her fingers, gentling probing, trying to figure out what was happening, another convulsion and pulse of pain fired through her.

Anora crumpled to the floor, a feeling like she had been kicked with a metal boot at the same time someone was driving nails into skin. There was another blast of sharp agony, another clenching in her groin.

The queen dared not to look down, closing her eyes, her fingers trembling as she pushed them down between her legs, feeling the heavy splotch of warm liquid running down her thighs.

She had done everything right. Anora found love in her marriage. She embraced the kindness and nobility of a husband she had not wanted. Despite the odds, despite the tainted Grey Warden blood that coursed through Alistair's veins, they had conceived an heir. She vomited daily for weeks, her body rejecting the toxins that would poison their child.

She was not too old. There was still time. There was time for Duncan to grow up and become a great warrior king like his father. There was time to dote on Kallian, to indulge her little girl and raise her to be a great woman as she was. Ferelden would rejoice at the birth of the heir, the security of the Theirin line that Anora refused give them before.

Her father had given his entire life to fight for this country. He would do anything, give anything for Ferelden. His patriotism, his love and care for Ferelden had been nurtured in her since birth. Anora had never understood her father like that until after he was gone. It was not until her husband had given her his pendant, had made that small gesture of acceptance, healing and affection to her that she began to truly understand what it meant to be royal and to rule.

She had promised her father. She would do anything for Ferelden. It was an oath she had not kept, not until now, not until she realized how important it was.

Her hand trembled, wet before her tightly clenched eyes. Anora prayed, prayed that it was not what she thought. There had to be some other explanation, some other hope to cling to, for her, for Alistair, for Ferelden.

When she opened her eyes, all she could feel was despair, an emptiness so deep and so hollow that not even the flaring pain could break through.

The queen stared, unable to cry or scream, unable to look away from her fingers coated in the sticky, royal blood of her only child, knowing the failure was all and only hers.


End file.
